


but why am i running in place

by sweetponzu



Series: We Have a Long Way to Go [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bullying, Coming of Age, Family Issues, Gen, Trainee Life, Yoongi-centric, being a trainee is a shit life, lots of late night snacking, sorta - Freeform, wooga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6194677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetponzu/pseuds/sweetponzu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re my idol, you know?” He gets startled with the look Jihoon gives him. There’s trust there, adoration that shines bright like the sun and Yoongi’s never had such a look directed at him in earnest. </p><p>What Yoongi coughs out is probably not what he wanted to hear, “Call me Oppa, then.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	but why am i running in place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Min Yoongi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Min+Yoongi).



> There's not enough Wooga content, so here's my 50 cent, thrown to the pile.

     The first thing that comes to mind, when his alarm is screeching and some asshole turns on the sickly yellow lights is, _how badly does he want to make music? really?_

     Yoongi’s asking a rhetorical question here but his mind graciously gives him an answer by way of memories. Of times when all he can afford is ramen, _twice_ a day if he was lucky. When he’d covertly take out the coupon page from someone else’s roll of newspaper because he needed to buy toilet paper and his neighbor’s refusing to lend him any more. When he’d curl up into a cot in a room the size of a closet, the cold penetrating down into his bones, his screen’s weak light illuminating gaunt cheeks and half-unseeing eyes. _Thank you for the reminder brain_. Even his brain is an asshole at 4 o clock in the morning.

     He gets up.

 

 

     One of the _best_ things about being a trainee, he’d discovered, a year deep into signing onto BigHit, a contract that now seems to reek of lies, is that they are evaluated _monthly_. There are assessments, a lone company staff member sent armed with the same old recorder on a tripod, same tired eyes that looked like they’d seen deaths tenfold, rather than a bunch of kids tripling over themselves to put on a performance. To survive one more month. To chase their dreams on stilted legs.

     They probably have seen so much death. Death of a dream. Ha.

     Yoongi doesn’t have time to ponder the slight tremble of his own hands as he laces his ratty converse. He tightens his grip, takes a couple shallow breaths, _he wasn’t going to be one of them_.

     He took up the mic and kills it.

 

     “If by killing it you mean, your flailing nearly socking me to the ground, then yeah,” Donghyuk– the _asshole_ – pauses to take gulps out of Yoongi’s banana milk. “You crushed it.”

     “Crushed my toes too.” Namjoon pipes up. The BigHit favorite has always been a little brave. But he hunches himself half-behind Donghyuk afterwards, so Yoongi figured he still had fear in his bones.

     Yoongi doesn’t argue. He didn’t know shit about dancing, so they should have thought of that when they decided to feel ambitious and add some sort of movement for the hook. Yoongi wasn’t here for dancing. Not like the idol trainees.

     So he snorts and throws the crushed remains of his chips at Donghyuk’s face. “We’re not here to be idols anyway, so what does it matter?”

     They nod along, at this point the night had worn too long, their eyes half-lidded despite their lively jabs at Yoongi. He sighs, knowing that it’s best they drag themselves back to the company ~~closet~~ dorms.

     Half a year of this passes. Control + C. Control + V. Yoongi is getting stagnant. Like Jajangmyeon noodles left to swell, heavy and uneaten. And to make matters worse, he has a sneaking suspicion that he’s not truly heading the direction he’d been lead to believe. There’s more of them now. Droves more trainees from this year’s Hit It auditions, some claiming to be trainees transferred from other companies, some looking like they should still be in diapers. And there was suddenly a _dance instructor._

     Suddenly, (or not so suddenly, as Yoongi may or may not have been trying hard to drown in denial and banana milk.) they were expected to rap, sing _and_ dance. Yoongi’s not the most graceful dancer but at least he got better, unlike Namjoon who’s been taken to be known as left-footed Kim. But dancing was definitely part of the plan.

  
     It becomes clear to him. As they sat around the conference table that they were _not_ at all going the direction he’d been lead to believe. ‘Bangtansonyeondan’ was _not_ going to be the next 1TYM, not going to be Yoongi, Namjoon, Donghyuk and some other lucky trainees making sick beats and hip hop music. They were going to be _idols_.

     Yoongi bites his tongue, the searing acid of betrayal and sinking weight of how unfair life can be was burning his throat till he’s scratching at it with visible discomfort. Bang Shihyuk is looking him the eye now, eyes uncharacteristically serious, the same eyes he’d only seen focused on him when he’d first gotten evaluated– daring him to make a move. But Yoongi is stuck. He’s in a contract now. Shackled his dreams to this. There was nowhere to go. _Nowhere better anyway._

     What would his parents say? They’d never approved, not when he’d first bought his midi board with the New Year’s money he’d saved, not when he’d started producing original tracks, not when he’d moved out to Seoul to pursue his dreams, each song forged from hunger pains and sweaty palms not worth more than 10 won…

     Definitely not now, if he ran away from this. So he looks back at the man and puts on a brave front.

 

 

 

Donghyuk leaves. It’s not surprising. He was talented and he’d shared with Yoongi, under the cover of their shared blanket, that another company, one focused on hip hop, had been scouting him. That night, they’d laughed it off. But after what Bang pd has told them…Yoongi understands. He waives him away, telling Donghyuk that he understands but also that he should know– He will never make it as big as Yoongi and Namjoon will.

     (Yoongi’s bitter. He said he _understands_ but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think Donghyuk’s an idiot for leaving. Doesn’t mean he resents him any less.)

     He shows up for grouping with a purple splotch high on his cheek bone, the next day. He expects to be told to go back home, sure that the other trainees, especially the new ones, would be uncomfortable. (brats) But the instructor takes a look at him, asks him what happened– “I fell down the stairs”– and then nods and moves on. Yoongi shouldn’t be surprised by the nonchalance. But laughter bubbles up from his throat and yeah, the other trainees are definitely scared now. But it’s just too funny because _their dorm is on the first floor_.

     They’re trying something new with the grouping for this month’s evaluation. He and Namjoon won’t be in the same group, the instructor dispassionately waxing about senior trainees needing to share the wealth. The separation makes Yoongi’s finger twitch but he wasn’t going to protest.

     He and Namjoon are huddled into a corner of the room, silently observing with keen eyes. Whispering to each other’s ears from time to time. Just to fuck with the other trainees, of course.

     Namjoon gets paired with two relatively new trainees. He’s pretty sure one of them lives in the same dorm and had walked in when Yoongi had just stepped out of the shower during his first day. Namjoon must remember because he’s shuffling awkwardly, shoulders slumped and talking in a hushed tone. Either way, it’s hilarious. Until Yoongi finds out that these were their groups for 'an indefinite amount of time’– Yoongi can’t roll his eyes enough– and that the first evaluation will be _dance_.

     And Yoongi’s paired with an actual twelve year old and some guy named Taeyeon or something. He goes into it with expectations set way below the bar.

 

 

 

     After the disastrous shit show that was their first run through, Yoongi stands (bent over panting actually) corrected, he’s been paired with an inept toddler– _I’m fifteen_ – and an extremely weird guy named Taeyeong. They actually managed to exceed Yoongi’s expectations. They were so far below the bar that they may as well be at the bottom of the Han River.

     This group almost makes Yoongi feel like the best damn dancer in BigHit. The kid’s skinned his knees– clean up will be a blast, Yoongi can already tell– from falling more times than Yoongi had when he’d been learning how to walk. As a _baby._ And Taeyeong couldn’t process the simple concept of _copying_ movements. It’s like he was wearing reality bending glasses– a flick of the foot was a kick and a simple head turn made into a possession. Jesus Christ, Yoongi’s fucked.

     Yoongi doesn’t bother trying to salvage the situation. Doesn’t have the will to. If he fails and _somehow_ they decide he’s not fit to be in Bangtan (the _idol_ group) then he’d strive to just work off his contract with the company as a staff member. Who knows, maybe he can work his way up to the recording booth as a producer some day.

     The daydreams lead him closer to the evaluation day without fuss. He’d put in the minimal amount of effort needed for dance practice and promptly headed back to write more lyrics before vocal lessons in the next hour. He doesn’t bother talking more than necessary with his group mates. It’d be a waste of breath, since they seemed just like any other trainees that dropped like flies after their first failed evaluation.

     Consternation hits him two nights before group evaluations. He’d polished and added the finishing touches to his rap for his individual evaluation when he noticed that all the bunk beds were empty. Even Namjoon wasn’t on his phone, scrolling for inspiration across from him. He decides to go to the basement.

 

  
     When he comes, the practice room looked like a battle scene. The mirrors were fogged up and there were bodies lying on the sweat slicked floor, chests heaving up and down. Everyone apparently decided to do group suicide and failed to invite Yoongi.

     “Uh-uh, I threw a pillow at you earlier while asking if you were coming hyung.” Namjoon answers, breath getting caught halfway from where Yoongi had toed into his rib.

     He doesn’t get to do more damage when two pairs of hands drags him back to a corner of the room. It’s the brat and Taeyeong.

     “We know you don’t like us,” Taeyong starts off. He’s not wrong.

     “And that’s fine,” The kid continues, voice steady. They must’ve practiced together, the thought makes Yoongi’s lips curve into a smirk. It doesn’t stay for long because their grip on his hands were getting too tight.

     (“Not really,” Taeyeong mutters off to the side.)

     “But can you at least _try_?” The kid continues, pointedly ignoring Taeyeong in favor of looking towards Yoongi. His eyes are searching for something Yoongi can’t give him. The kid looks down and away. Silence cloys the air and the vapors of sweat seemed to cling on to Yoongi’s arms.

     “I…I can’t fail my parents like this. So, please?”

     It’s probably the way the kid looked close to tears, his eyes wet but his hand clenched and his brows set in a determined line to will his tears not to fall, that pulls Yoongi into a memory. A memory of himself, doing the exact same thing, when he’d told his parents. Told his brother. How in the face of their consternation and disapproval, he’d begged for their blessing. They never gave it. And maybe Yoongi’s projecting, but he gives the response he would have wanted to hear back then.

 

     “Okay. I’ve got you, kid.”

 

 

 

     They end up doing really horribly. It was all flailing limbs, and small bursts of sharp synchronicity followed swiftly with stumbling collisions. But when it ends, they let themselves fall into a heap off to the side. Breaths and sweat mingling and they are not _light_ but Yoongie felt like he was floating in relief. He doesn’t realize that his hand was petting the kid’s head, fingers treading hair, until the kid groans but pushes unto his hand further. His breath gets knocked out of him but he’s pretty sure it’s because of Taehyung digging his head into Yoongi’s empty stomach.

     The ahjumma’s restaurant down by the dorms was closed by the time they were done so they pool everyone’s money, little else but change really, to grab some spicy rice cakes. They all clatter into rickety chairs, some whispering, others–Namjoon– whining loudly about his sore feet to his group mates. Since when did they get close? But with how he’s nudging the bowl of rice cakes towards the other two, Yoongi’s in no position to question the other.

     That night, the moon looked so high up, that even when Yoongi’s arm reached up for it, the illusion of his finger tips holding the ball of light was thinner than his t-shirt in the cold, calm winds of Seoul. The moon was large, larger than any of them, any of their youthful struggles and worries and insecurities and the uncertainty of tomorrow. The moon was always the same. A constant. His fingers twitch for a pen but he realizes he didn’t bring his notebook today.

     He gets tugged away from his thoughts by Taeyeong– _Taehyung_. 

     “Hyung, why aren’t you eating? Can’t handle spicy?” He jokes, and when did this brat get so brave? Yoongi shoves the other off and shakes his head. His stomach grumbles but he doesn’t touch his chopsticks. The kids deserve the food. They’ve worked hard.

     He glances over to Jihoon, the kid oddly silent after the initial rush to stuff their faces. He was bent over his arm, writing on it with a marker.

     “What are you doing?”

     “N-nothing!”

     “I won’t peek if you let me borrow your marker,” Yoongi bargains, his fingers already reaching for it.

     The kid gives it up with a little grumble but otherwise stays quiet. Yoongi didn’t think it was going to be this easy, expecting the kid to just relent and show what he’s doing– he’s writing lyrics, from what little Yoongi had glimpsed– rather than handing over the pen. Yoongi knows he would have. Writing lyrics while he was in the zone was more important than anything.

     He hands it back to the kid, after twirling the pen around his fingers for a bit, lyrics on his head whirring but unwilling to become vivid on his tongue. A slight smile twitches on the kid’s face as he resumes writing on the pale skin of his wrist. Yoongi sips his banana milk with a secret smile.

     Yoongi will earn the right to see his lyrics someday.

 

 

 

     The next day, the results are out and Jihoon’s leg wouldn’t stop bouncing up and down, making the chair creak in an annoying mish mash of a stuttered melody. Even Yoongi’s hand holding it down doesn’t do much, other than make the younger freeze for a beat before resuming his fidgeting with a new born intensity.

     Yoongi gets it. Nobody wants to get kicked out. Does not want to get put under consideration and with how badly they did, Yoongi’s not surprised. So Yoongi pulls his hand away, then propped his legs on top of Jihoon’s lap. He gets Taehyung to scoot in from Jihoon’s other side so he can rest his foot on his lap more comfortably. It’s enough to stun Jihoon into inaction. Yoongi smirks.

     They’re not the absolute worst. No, that spot was reserved for Namjoon’s group– something about the skill distribution being off. But second to the worst was pretty fucking bad.

     He still hooks his arms around the two dorks and head out to ramen.

 

 

     Yoongi’s on his way to work on dancing with Jihoon and Taehyung when Namjoon ambushes him.

     “You like working with those two kids huh?”

     For some odd reason, Namjoon’s tone has Yoongi on the defensive, “I could have been shackled with worse, for example, you. Why are you asking?”

     “Sheesh no need to be so prickly hyung!” Namjoon chuckles, swiping his thumb across his nose. “I was just asking if you wanted me to put in a good word for those two.”

     Yoongi’s well aware that Namjoon had some pull. He wasn’t branded the favorite for no reason.

     “You know with the rate their going…they might get dropped if they get another bad evaluation.”

     But just one time. Just one time. He’d like to punch in Namjoon’s previliged ass. He turns away from Namjoon and his suggestions. The kids are alright and if there’s one thing Yoongi knows about them, it’s that they can make it on their own. (Maybe.)

 

 

  
     The next group evaluation was for vocals. Yoongi’s a rapper so he’d assumed he’d rap and the others will sing and it’ll be a walk in the park. But _no_. Nothing’s ever easy and Yoongi’s convinced BigHit signing him is all just a hoax.

     They want him to sing a Ballad. A Ballad. Him. Min Yoongi. _Singing_.

     What the actual fuck.

     While he’s having a hard time wrapping his head around it, it seems the other two have been throwing around songs that they can cover. None of them are particularly appealing and Yoongi’s sure he’d stumble over the English if they chose any of the ones Taehyung was suggesting.

     They don’t come to a decision and so they just decide to call it a night. Yoongi needed it, anyway. Min Yoongi singing still seemed like such a terrible joke.

     He’s already tucked in bed, wearing worn sweats and a thin shirt, when he realizes the absence of his notebook. He must’ve forgotten it, tucked into the small crevice between the wall and the cabinets in the basement.

     He’d let it be, but right now he can almost feel the words on his tongue and was sure the taste would fade away come morning. So he pulls on a sweater and hopes that a trainee stayed behind so he can go in and out.

     As it turns out, there _was_ a poor fool training into dawn. It’s Jihoon. Strumming on a guitar that seemed big enough to swallow him. Yoongi can’t quite make out the words through the door, where he peeked inside through the glass strip. But Jihoon’s voice was high and fine, like thin threads of silk weaving together under his fingertips. It’s easy to understand why they took a fifteen year old who didn’t have the slightest clue on how to dance.

     He sang like a crooning bird, sweet and endearing. Like fluttering wings and the drip drop of the morning dew from the tip of a leaf. His voice enveloped Yoongi like a light embrace. Jihoon was _good._

     Yoongi can work with this.

     He pushes in and the singing stops with a clatter. Jihoon looks shocked at Yoongi’s arrival but he ruffles the kid’s hair and gives him a wide smile.

     “I know what we’re going to sing for this month’s evaluation.”

 

 

  
     Taehyung is ecstatic when they get together again after vocal lessons the next afternoon.

     “Wow, that’s so amazing Jihoon! I didn’t know you wrote songs!”

     The kid ducks his head down but Yoongi wasn’t going to let him get away from the praise. “Yeah, I didn’t either, but our Jihoonie’s so good. He might actually be a genius producer in the making.” Yoongi croons, fingers clutching a plump cheek. The irony of what he’s saying is not lost on him, but he thinks the kid needed a spurt of confidence (and maybe for puberty to actually hit him). Jihoon’s cheek turns an angry red when he pulls away and he whines. Taehyung fusses over it and gives the kid’s cheek a sloppy kiss to soothe the pain away. It weirds Yoongi out.

     Taehyung’s fucking weird.

     “Alright enough of that. Now that we’ve decided to sing Jihoon’s original song, you’ve got to guide us to victory PD-nim or else we’ll all get kicked out the company.” Yoongi drawls, means it to be playful but it comes out more mean spirited than he’d intended. There’s really no point in burdening the younger like this. Jihoon’s fifteen and Yoongi’s soon turning eighteen, he had to remember to be good hyung here.

 

  
     So Yoongi gets to work. He spends all his breaks in between lessons, working through melody and harmonies with Jihoon. There’s no need for his midi board, they were going to sing a simple ballad with acoustics. But Jihoon somehow gets Taehyung and him instruments. Taehyung had these weird clam looking things clasped on his fingers– they made small clicking sounds. Jihoon sat Yoongi on what looked like a wooden block and told him that he was going to make beats by hitting it with the palm of his hands. It’s all bizarre and how does the kid even know so many instruments?

     Their first complete run through was bad. More than bad, Taehyung may have actually broken a castanet, the clam-like instrument. Yoongi’s voice was cracking with his effort and their voices were just not melding. The second isn’t much better.

     It’s only when it’s nearly four in the morning, on their 68th try does it sound like an actual presentable song. Jihoon nearly cries from the relief, tears bubbling up and glossing his eyes over. Taehyung does cry and he’s pulled into a group hug and Yoongi lets them soak his sweat shirt with tears. He pets their heads and maybe. He lets himself think about how nice it would be if these two debuted with him under Bangtan.

 

 

  
     Yoongi isn’t trying to make a habit of it but it seems like he gets inspired whenever he’s conveniently forgotten his notebook in the basement. It also seems like Jihoon makes a habit of being the last trainee to leave the basement every time he _does_ go down to fetch his notebook. But it has more to do with the other boy’s need for perfection. To prove himself. From the bruises that pepper Jihoon’s skin, Yoongi’s pretty sure this much practice was not healthy.

     Which is why, when Yoongi arrives, he takes his notebook and slings Jihoon over his shoulder. Jihoon is light. Lighter than he should be for a growing boy, so instead of throwing him to bed, Yoongi sets him down on a chair at a nearby convenience store.

     “Hyung, I have to keep practicing… I don’t want go back to the dorm…” Jihoon half yawns and half mumbles. His eyes are half-lidded and he’s shivering from the night wind. Yoongi sighs, what was he gonna do with this kid?

     “You’re not going to get any better on your own. Have you thought about asking for help?” Yoongi pushes a plate of hotdogs towards the other, “Like a hyung you can rely on?” Yoongi tries to keep his voice level and the curve of his mouth straight but Jihoon shoots him a pointed look anyway.

     “Hyung, you’re not that much better than me at dancing.”

     “Ya, who said I meant me?” Yoongi fires back, trying to save face.

     Jihoon makes a confused face, his eyebrows twisting, cheeks dimpling in concentration. “But you’re the only hyung I can rely on…?”

     Yoongi doesn’t mean to stutter but he does, his face warm and his hands sweaty, when he offers to have Hoseok tutor them in dancing instead.

 

 

  
     When evaluations for the ballads were done and they’d gone to bed after a small celebration with spicy rice cakes and banana milk, Yoongi laid awake. His brain kept replaying how sweetly his rough timbre melded with Jihoon’s high keen. How Taehyung’s low alto brought them deeper into the song and the words flowed like honey. How much his fingers itched to write more lyrics than it had in the past year that he felt himself float aimlessly– Yoongi felt inspiration burn through him even as his fingers sting from the bumps and bruises of forcing himself to learn an actual instrument in half a month. Yoongi felt the strangest creeping of exhilaration.

     He didn’t get any sleep that night. But his notebook had more ink splotched on it than it had in months, so when he sees him before the results are out; he grabs Jihoon by the nape and gives the younger a squeeze and a noogie.

 

     They get top scores.

 

     And he’s back in the conference table, sitting with Namjoon at his side– Bangtan will soon be finalized in the coming months. Bang Shihyuk looks Yoongi in the eye, and something like pride gleams in them. Yoongi should feel ecstatic. He does, but something weighs him down, so he just returns it with a languid smile, and says with all the confidence he didn’t have, “We will work hard to make sure you won’t regret putting your faith in us.”

     (Because Bangtan will be bigger than Donghyuk can ever hope to be, they _have_ to.)

 

 

  
     Yoongi’s not unfamiliar with the ins and outs of trainee life. It’s much like how things were in school, except everyone was more desperate and things were worse. He knows that some trainees can be bullied, for being useless or taking up a spot when they had no talents. Yoongi can see why they’d do it. It’s wrong still, but he lets it be. It wasn’t any of his business.

     The same treatment could be given to someone who is extremely outstanding. Those who have potential gets bullied by those who don’t. It’s not okay, still. But it was also still none of his business.

     Not his business till he’s faced with the reason why Jihoon was always bruised. It wasn’t from dance practice, that much is evident as he witnesses a huddle of young boys talking down to a fallen Jihoon by the alley near the dorms.

     “You think you’re better than us now? Just because you got top tier for evals? Hah, I bet you that only happened because your hyungs sucked some staff’s dick….Or maybe _you_ did?” The jeers and their sneers painted the world red, in Yoongi’s eyes. He’s stuck, vibrating in anger. In disbelief. Not knowing who he wants to charge at, who he wants to punch first. His hand screaming from how tight he’s balled his hands into fists.

     All this, and yet Yoongi did nothing. (It’s not supposed to be his business.)

 

 

  
     Rapping was next. This is Yoongi’s domain. Their group would no doubt thrive because of this. But Yoongi is distracted.

     “Hyung, you’ve been staring at the same page for the past five minutes.” Namjoon helpfully quips from the safety of his bed where Hoseok was perched right beside him. Brat.

     “Yeah, just thinking over what would be better to diss you with, Left-footed Kim or Rap Loser.” Yoongi drawls, eliciting a surprised laugh from Hoseok.

     “He’s only like that because he wants to suck my dick,” Namjoon turns to Hoseok, sniggering. There’s a short pause before Yoongi throws his notebook sharply and it narrowly misses Namjoon’s head. Namjoon is stunned, his mouth fixed open, not daring to move or make a sound. Silence drapes the room, save for Yoongi’s own harsh breathing. Hoseok’s kind of glad he didn’t share a room with the two now.

     Yoongi pulls on a hoodie and leaves.

 

 

  
     He goes to the basement. And of course Jihoon’s there. He’s talking to a tall kid, and for a second Yoongi’s eyes narrow, sizing the other kid up. He comes in with a clamor, letting the door bounce against the wall, startling the two. Jihoon relaxes at the sight of him but the other trainee scrambles away, passing Yoongi discreetly with a small bow. Yoongi doesn’t sit till he’s sure the other’s gone.

     He sits near the back, resting his weight on the padding of the wall, pulling out pen and paper. He takes a moment to let his eyes roam Jihoon’s body, looking at exposed patches of skin peppered in blotches of yellowing bruises. Little nicks and scratches that Yoongi can’t help but obsess over as Jihoon scoots towards him.

     Yoongi wants to ask who the other trainee was. Was he bothering Jihoon? Why didn’t Jihoon say anything if he was being bullied? Why didn’t he ask for Yoongi’s help?

     “You wrote the hook already? Wow, you’re really great at this hyung.” Jihoon’s reading through his scrawl on the paper.

     Yoongi grunts, shrugging the compliment off. He didn’t really know how to respond to those.

     “I looked you up, you know. You’re an underground rapper right?” Yoongi stills. It’s not really a secret but it’s not something people bring up. Not unless they wanted to make Yoongi feel like shit for selling out to a company.

     Yoongi nods, a snort escaping him. ( _Was_ an underground rapper, others would beg to differ.)

     “I think…you’re cool.”

     Yoongi waits for more. Waits for a 'but’ or something else to follow. But Jihoon merely sheaves off a piece of paper and steals his pen.

     “Yah,” Jihoon looks up, “That’s all you have to say about it?”

     The little shit just gives him a cheeky grin and a nod. Yoongi wasn’t going to let this pass. “I’ll have you know, I’m pretty good. I’ve been a genius producer since middle school.” It’s a little bit (a lot) of a stretch, but he wanted to get a rise out of the other.

     Jihoon snickers, not bothering to look up at Yoongi even as he nods his head along to what the elder said. Cheeky brat. “I know.”

     A comfortable silence takes over until Jihoon looks up again.

     “You’re my idol, you know?” He gets startled with the look Jihoon gives him. There’s trust there, adoration that shines bright like the sun and Yoongi’s never had such a look directed at him in earnest. His breath gets caught, but Jihoon seems like he’s expecting a response.

     What Yoongi coughs out is probably not what he wanted to hear, “Call me Oppa, then.”

 _What the fuck Min Yoongi_.

     There’s a stunned silence before Jihoon falls over laughing, crumpling all their papers, head nearly resting on Yoongi’s lap in his fit. Yoongi’s trying not to smile but it’s hard when this is the most he’d seen the younger laugh since he’d seen him downtrodden in the alley.

     (The memory is enough to sober him up.)

 

 

  
     They work on rapping. Jihoon and Taehyung insist on writing their own rap and Yoongi knows it will be a headache and a half trying to steer them to the right direction but lets them. It’s better to have an excuse to be around Jihoon all the time, anyway. The next time Yoongi sees anything remotely bad happen to the other, he’ll be ready.

     But for now, they had to tackle something disastrous.

     “You can’t use Satoori to make it rhyme better Taehyung.” Yoongi sighs.

     “Why not?” Taehyung quips, pen still frantically writing on his paper.

     “Because…because it’s not–” Yoongu couldn’t really come up with much of anything to counter it. It was just something that everyone came to accept. He never had to explain why. Just as he’d never questioned why he had to lose his Daegu rasp and master his Seoul accent before even thinking of auditioning to BigHit.

     “Things are just like that, okay?”

     Yoongi digs his palm against his forehead, willing another bout of migraine away. Can’t they understand that Yoongi just wants their group to do well?

 

 

  
     After an exhausting week, courtesy of Taehyung’s unrelenting whining and painstaking lessons on pronunciation and tone, they move dorms and it’s larger than the last but it’s also a lot more crowded. It’s made to fit seven.

     The first ones there are Yoongi, Namjoon and Hoseok. Namjoon lets out a whoop, claiming the lone single bed in a room. Yoongi weighs the pros and cons of settling into a room with Namjoon again. His unwillingness to adapt to new people is what has him putting his bag on the bottom bunk across from Namjoon’s single. Hoseok looks like he’s considering rooming with them and with a nod from Yoongi, he’s flinging his bag to the top bunk.

     “I can’t believe this is finally happening now, Yoongi-hyung.” Namjoon says, hushed, bundled in blankets. Hoseok makes a noise of agreement while shaking the bunk slightly from above Yoongi.

     “Don’t jinx it, 'joon-ah.” Yoongi mutters, sleep heavy on his tongue, his heart trying not to soar too high. He’s just as elated and excited and it’s scary. Hope was scary. But he lets it settle deep within him, just for tonight.

 

 

     It’s a mistake because he couldn’t sleep. He feels hyper aware of the rustle of the plastic still wrapped around his mattress, the different smell hanging on the air and the louder reverberation of Namjoon’s snores. Yoongi’s bone tired but he gets up.

     Jihoon’s still up, practicing. It makes Yoongi wonder how the younger’s doing in school. He wasn’t getting nearly enough sleep to be doing well, that’s for sure.

     Tonight, he’s practicing the group rap. Yoongi’s not sure how the two got him to agree to it, but apparently, they were going to perform a Satoori rap for the evaluations. Jihoon rapping in a Gyeongsang-do accent seems incongruous to his slight frame. The verbiage had a crisp and blunt quality to it that fit Jihoon but at the same time clashed with his looks. The solid, manly tone he’s trying to project is undermined by his thin voice, unlike Yoongi’s own low drawl. The boy is struggling and he’s made a face at his reflection for the fifth time before Yoongi decides to come in and help the kid out.

     They stay late. Later than they ever have, late enough that Jihoon had to get to school in an hour. Yoongi makes the decision that Jihoon wasn’t going to school by letting the other boy sleep on his bed in the new dorms. Yoongi barely hears the crinkle of plastic, a large wave of drowsiness hitting him as soon as he’s laid Jihoon to rest.

     Yoongi wants to fall into sleep.

     (But there’s the track for the group evaluation. Should he ask Hoseok about what he thinks of a Satoori rap? He also wants to make more songs to show the producers, to know what to tweak– Yoongi wants the songs he’s made with the lyrics he wrote to be what he’s singing when they debut. He also needs to apologize to Namjoon, shouldn’t he? He never did say sorry when he’d blown up at him. Maybe ask Bang Shihyuk to let Jihoon– Yoongi’s brain won’t let him rest.)

 

  
     Yoongi doesn’t notice how many hours he spends not sleeping. Not until he’s falling, and he doesn’t understand why, because he was just grabbing a glass of water? There’s a sort of hollow clattering and it makes his head ring, a burst of pain like hot flashes of thunder on his shoulder. Namjoon’s bumbling footsteps doesn’t help. Neither does Hoseok’s screeching. Everything feels so far away and Yoongi’s throat isn’t working. All sounds slowly become muddled till darkness claims him.

     Yoongi’s brain decides to rest.

 

     His mother’s hands feel too soft around his own. Yoongi can’t focus on anything else, not the curl between her eyebrows, not the stiff way that his father stood by his bed, not the basket of apples by his bedside and not about just how much money landing himself in the hospital was going to cost them. Yoongi _doesn’t_. But he lets himself brush away his mother’s tears.

     (Yoongi’s a horrible son.)

     His mother peels apples for him, asking him about how he’s been, acting as if they’d just met up in a cafe, not a stuffy hospital ward. Acting as if this wasn’t the first time he’s seen them in nearly a year and a half. She takes to caring for Yoongi seamlessly.

     Yoongi’s father is not as great an actress as his mother, the way his eyes followed every single wave of Yoongi’s hand belied his worry. The way his mouth refused to budge from its tight line confirmed Yoongi’s suspicions– his father is still against the idea of Yoongi pursuing his dreams.

     But. They’re trying. They’re here now, weren’t they?

     So Yoongi slips into his role. He’s their little boy again. The one with large heroic dreams, the one that dreamed of riding fire trucks into raging fires, the one that drew straight lines with rulers in preparation for becoming their upstanding architect. Their little boy before Yoongi grew into the rebellious adult child. He wanted to make them proud and happy again.

     “We’re debuting soon.”

     (Yoongi had never done well during acting lessons.)

 

 

     It’s not a lie. They debuted two years later (two winter, spring, summer and falls), swept into a whirlwind of practice, fanmeets, long nights in recording booths and awkward encounters with other idols. It’s surreal but Yoongi felt like he debuted long before make up’s caked on his face. He’d debuted the day he came back from the hospital, allowed himself to throw uncertainty away and become the kid who only chased music once again. Allowed himself to acknowledge that he’s not standing still, that he’s only in between a momental pause in time between him and his dreams’ fulfillment.

     Bangtan debuts with seven. (But Jihoon isn’t one of them.)

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry that this was such a mess-- i cant even  
> but i tried my best for yoongi
> 
> Happy Suga Day~~~~


End file.
